LINES LEFT UPON A SEAT IN A YEW-TREE WHICH STANDS NEAR THE LAKE OF ESTHWAITE,
ON A DESOLATE PART OF THE SHORE, YET COMMANDING A BEAUTIFUL PROSPECT

             — Nay, Traveller! rest. This lonely yew-tree stands
             Far from all human dwelling: what if here
             No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb;
             What if these barren boughs the bee not loves;
             Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves,
             That break against the shore, shall lull thy mind
             By one soft impulse saved from vacancy.

                                         Who he was
             That piled these stones, and with the mossy sod
             First covered o'er, and taught this aged tree,
             Now wild, to bend its arms in circling shade,
             I well remember. - He was one who own'd
             No common soul. In youth, by genius nurs'd,
             And big with lofty views, he to the world
             Went forth, pure in his heart, against the taint
             Of dissolute tongues, 'gainst jealousy, and hate,
             And scorn, against all enemies prepared,
             All but neglect: and so, his spirit damped
             At once, with rash disdain he turned away,

             And with the food of pride sustained his soul
             In solitude. - Stranger! these gloomy boughs
             Had charms for him; and here he loved to sit,
             His only visitants a straggling sheep,
             The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper;
             And on these barren rocks, with juniper,
             And heath, and thistle, thinly sprinkled o'er,
             Fixing his downward eye, he many an hour
             A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here
             An emblem of his own unfruitful life:
             And lifting up his head, he then would gaze
             On the more distant scene; how lovely 'tis
             Thou seest, and he would gaze till it became
             Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain
             The beauty still more beauteous. Nor, that time,
             Would he forget those beings, to whose minds,
             Warm from the labours of benevolence,
             The world, and man himself, appeared a scene
             Of kindred loveliness: then he would sigh
             With mournful joy, to think that others felt
             What he must never feel: and so, lost man!
             On visionary views would fancy feed,
             Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep vale
             He died, this seat his only monument.

             If thou be one whose heart the holy forms
             Of young imagination have kept pure,
             Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know, that pride,
             Howe'er disguised in its own majesty,
             Is littleness; that he, who feels contempt
             For any living thing, hath faculties
             Which he has never used; that thought with him
             Is in its infancy. The man, whose eye
             Is ever on himself, doth look on one,
             The least of nature's works, one who might move
             The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds
             Unlawful, ever. O, be wiser thou!
             Instructed that true knowledge leads to love,
             True dignity abides with him alone
             Who, in the silent hour of inward thought,
             Can still suspect, and still revere himself,
             In lowliness of heart.

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